The Village Boy

By Ayuba Mshelia

The story Village Boy is about the social and

familial upheavals and confl icts caused by the

introduction, in the early 20th century, by a group

of Christian missionaries, of Western cultural

traditions among an erstwhile peaceful and selfsuffi

cient agricultural sedentary people. These

cultural incursions led to the annihilation of the

peoples native traditions and cultures, including

those of Kachiya and Mbwarhatha(circumcision and

grind room- the only place where on a daily basis

young men could meet and fl irt with young women

in the evenings) which were the sole socialization instruments of the tribe. The

fulcrums of our culture and traditions that have sustained us for all these years

can now no longer hold, commented the tribal elder, Tapchi, to a boyhood friend,

Aji, fi ve years after the coming of the missionaries; everything is different and

in a sorry chaos!

This breakdowns led to the mass exodus of the youth to the distant emerging cities

of Kano, Jos, Kaduna ,and, yes, even Lagos. These new immigrants, however,

faced steep competition for jobs both from the citys residents and from other

migrants who had converged on the cities from all corners of the countryside.

Their meager education forced them into menial jobs, such as house boys or

store clerks; few were able to secure even low-level government jobs.

The social confl ict and upheaval was partially resolved, to some minimally

acceptable levels, by the regular annual visits of those who had left the land,

bringing with them gifts of tea, sugar, bread, and items of clothing which were

generously and lavishly shared with relatives and neighbours. Some few who

had made it, in the city even came with their own mettika (cars).

But things are not always as gloomy as is refl ected in the lives of Madu, Dalla,

and, to some extent, Hassana in the stories that follow. Some of the tribes

migrant sons and daughters to the cities (like Madu in the story) took to politics

and became active, relevant and prominent during the early years of self-rule

and eventual Independence. Education has been, and continues to be, the

social instrument of mobility for the children of the migrants and for those who

remained on the land, as for example, Dalla. They can now be found in all sectors

of the Nigerian society, as educators, business men, politicians and high cadre

civil servants.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 12, 2009
• ISBN: 9781467850360

Ayuba Mshelia

I was born in Garkida, a town in Adamawa State in the north-eastern part of the Federal Republic of Nigeria. I attended a Missionary school from Elementary to High School. After high school I was admitted to ATC/ABU Kano from 1967-1970. In 1971 after the completion of my course of studies, I was admitted to Ahmadu Bello University (ABU) Zaria. I graduated three years later with a Second-Upper class with honors degree in 1974. I served a required one year of National Youth Service in Kano, before joining Ahmadu Bello University Zaria faculty in the Faculty of Education. In 1977/1978, I attended the University of Chicago, Illinois, where I earned a Master’s degree (MA). I returned to Ahmadu Bello University teaching, until 1980 when I was admitted to a Ph.D. program at Columbia University, New York City. I completed my degree in 1985. I joined the City Board of Education in 1985, and the City University of New York (CUNY) system at Borough of community College Campus in 1987, until my retirement in July this year. Besides my teaching and family responsibilities, I am the author of several books which include the following titles: Suksuku Revisited: A collection of Bura Tribal Stories, Folk Tales and Makumdla dza, dza/Riddles and Quotes; Reflecting Their Belief Systems, Mores and the Supernatural; 2017; The Story of the Origin of the Bura/Pabir People of Northeast Nigeria, Language, Migrations, the Myth of Yamta-ra-Wala, Social Organization and culture, 2014; Araba Let’s Separate, The story of the Nigerian Civil war, 2012; Suksuku, Stories and Folktales of the Bura People of North-Eastern Nigeria, 2010; The Village Boy, 2009; Cognition, Culture and Field Dependence-Independence, 2008; Depth Pictorial Perception, Culture and Psychological Differentiation, 2008; AG Press, 3 Dudley Rd. Apt.4, Townsend, MA 01469. All the books, except the last listed, are published by Authorhouse Publishing Company in Bloomington, Indiana.

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Chapter 1 The Village Boy

Chapter 1 

THE EARLY BEGINNINGS

Nkwatir Nkwarbila awoke to the first cock-crow and immediately went to the local stove (lindi) to get warm water ready for Dalla her son, to wash him self with. Once the fire had been ignited she went back to bed and dozed off briefly, until the second cock-crow, at which point she went in to wake Dalla up.

"Dalla, Get up Baba (father), it’s already daylight and you are going to be late for school today",

Nkwatir whispered in her gentle, sweet and loving sleepy voice to her youngest son. Dalla had been named after her father, the chivalrous, great and formidable tribal military-commander. This is the reason for her endearment to the name Baba which might also be translated as Junior. Dalla was invariably known amongst his friends, as Baba.

After making sure that Dalla (Junior) was fully awake, Nkwatir peeped out through the half-open door to allow the glistening light of the tropical sun, which was imbued with life and energy, to rush in and usher in for her and Dalla a new day, a new life and hope.

Rejuvenated thus, she wiped her wrinkled but still beautiful face with the palms of both hands and yawned gently before raising them towards the heavens, as if asking for guidance from some inexplicable force.

She moved stealthily around the small thatched hut to get Dalla the warm water she had boiled for him earlier, at the first cock-crow. It had taken a longer time to boil the water today because Nkwatir had been out of fire-wood in fact she had used her last piece of wood. She would have to go to the bush later in the day to get some more.

Her regular daily routine at this time helped loosen her muscles up after a restless night on a hard and unpleasant katsar (a wooden bed), but as she performed these inconsequential daily rituals she remained always grateful, in spite of everything, for having Dalla because, in this society, if a woman didn’t have a child preferably a male her marriage was not yet considered consecrated (Nkwatir also had an older son, Adamu). It was therefore a matter of hope and pride for every woman to wish fervently for a son, as a surety to an equally hoped-for stable and loving marriage.

Didn’t you hear me? It’s already day-break, aren’t you going to school today? she implored Dalla, tartly.

Yes mama I heard you, was his polite response.

A cursory look at Nkwatir Nkwarbila revealed her to be a woman of medium height, but plum and fresh in appearance, with beautiful elegant shoulders and long black wavy hair. As a young woman she had worn her long and black-flowing hair in thick knots which hung on her beautiful and gracious shoulders like work of art. Nkwatir was one of those few women whom the passage of time, in this poor farming community, had seemingly left unscathed. Though now effete, her face worn by wrinkles that portrayed decades of silent sufferings, thanks to her otherwise excellent physical and mental constitution, she has preserved her beauty, a beauty without any embellishment ,to the envy of her contemporaries and peers.

Nkwatir had married at the tender age of eighteen and her first child, Adamu, had been born one year later.

Then, recognizing the good fortune of a young and elegant woman, whose family was highly respected in the whole community for their hunting skills and for an uncommon chivalry, the entire tribe came out and celebrated the arrival of the child.

Many in the community felt ─ and incidentally still feel ─ that Suwang was lucky to marry her, because, like her mother she was a hard-working diligent young woman who never got involved in any of the pranks of her cohorts. She (Nkwatir) was, by nature, jovial and outgoing, the complete antithesis of Suwang her husband.

Suwang was a middle-aged man when he married Nkwatir. By nature and disposition he was austere, taciturn, introspective and prudent. Although he felt at home with his crony friends, like Jangura and Sergeant Mwada, he was a bit of a loner and often preferred solicitude to public harangues, especially when forced to be in the company of strangers.

During the tribe’s early wars of attrition with their hostile neighbors ─ the Kilba, Gabin and the Hona ──, Suwang had distinguished himself as a good commander and a superb, formidable and ingenious military tactician. Now, however, things had changed, the British had somehow imposed peace on all the tribes in the district. Although many were saying that this was only a temporary arrangement, there had not been any wars between the half dozen tribes that had called this district a home now for generations.

Nkwatir’s spontaneous ritual of waking Dalla up had been going on every day, five days a week, for the last five years. This had been necessary because the Elementary School Dalla attends is about five miles from his home, which means he has to leave home very early if he is to get there on time. Dalla and his neighborhood friends made this journey walking bare-foot every weekday, throughout the whole School season, rain or hail.

According to the elder Jangura, who was present at the time and confirmed by available surviving tribal records in the archives, the afore-mentioned School was opened by a Missionary in this district on December 17, 1923 after a relentless and somewhat protracted struggle with the then Fulani Emir (Native Authority), who had never given any serious thought to building a school in this small and hilly village of bamboo called Garkida.

The argument against building a school in the village by the Emir and his council had always been based on the false assertion that there weren’t enough children to justify building a school, in spite of the fact that the women-folk in our town were always carrying babies.

In fact the elder Jangura, who was in his thirties when the Missionaries first arrived, claimed many years later that, at the time, some of the best local mathematicians estimated there were more than ten children per household in the village, given that each man had at least two or four wives. The estimated number of households at the time was put at something between fifty and one hundred.

Today however, Dalla was not in the mood for making the perennial trek; he was tired and not feeling well. Nkwatir however, was aware of the general penury prevalent in the culture, and was determined ─ and as it turned out destined ── to make a difference in her son’s life, despite all odds. She knew, perceptively, that the only way for Dalla to avoid the glum and the penury that awaited him (and every other child in this village for that matter) was to attend the school which the Missionaries had opened up, in spite of the Fulani Emir’s opposition and intransigence.

Even though she was not so sure of the benefits to be gained by going to School, she knew that Madu, her sister-in-law’s and best friend’s son who had attended the same School briefly, no longer lives with them. He now lives in Kano a large urban town in a big Government house with many rooms, boys’ quarters and a garden full of exotic flowers with paid maids, both male and female, to help with all the household chores. Nkwatir had also heard that in Kano, the city where Madu now lives, the sun doesn’t seem to set, that even in the night all you need to do is push a button on the wall and there will be light! That you could even keep some of your left-over or fresh food or water in a box-like thing that uses the same source of light as the one that brightens the room without it getting stale, for a day or two. She also knows that once a while Madu visits his parents, and whenever he comes home he is venerated because he doesn’t even walk on foot but drives in what the villagers call mettika (car). Jimbala, who is Suwang’s niece, had always shared the many different goodies (soap, sugar, tea and clothes) that Madu brought home generously with Nkwatir her friend and sister-in-law.

Thus Nkwatir’s dream and every other mother’s in the village is that one day their sons (girls’ education is not yet a priority in our culture) will also work for the Government and come home in mettika with lots of gifts to share with friends and relatives. Consequently, every mother invariably wakes her son up at this an early hour every day so they can make the journey that will one day bring them the golden fleece.

At the time Dalla was being woken up by his mother, his best friend Dawi, Jimbala’s youngest son, was already up and washing himself. As soon as he was ready, he picked up his locally-sewn book-bag, made from a cloth that had previously contained salt but now had since been washed and had been sewn into a bag. He snatched his meager lunch of last night’s left-over of boiled cassava and one or two notebooks, threw the bag upon his shoulder, and darted out to fetch Dalla.

The boys always checked on each other every morning which meant, whoever got ready first would run and fetch the other. Today however, Dalla was not even fully awake when Dawi came, but he stayed and, together with Dalla’s mother, they persuaded him to get ready.

In ten minutes the two friends were happily scampering on their way to school.

It is now necessary to diverge temporarily in order to provide my readers with some background information which is relevant indeed, invaluable to the understanding of the story as it unfolds.

By the way, do you still remember how and what happened when the Missionaries first came to our town? Elder Gashau asked his friend, the elder Jangura.

The following is Jangura’s recollection of the early events that took place when the Missionaries first came to our land. You’ll have to bear with me because the elder Jangura narrated these events in a somewhat haphazard manner, but in great detail, in order to help his friend Gashau, whose memory was fading fast, re-live those early days.

When Messrs. Helser and Kulp, Jangura began, " purely by chance, first arrived as Missionaries on March 8, 1923 in our village, I had been married to Jimbala a couple of years and we had a healthy son.

Jimbala was neither my first nor only wife; there were also Jantuwa and Pindar. I had children with both Jantuwa and Pindar. However, they were all girls (Mwajim, Bata, Kubili, and Kwapchi) and as you know, according to our tradition, girls could not inherit my estate on my death that is why I was thus very elated to have a son who could be an inheritor.

In the beginning, the Missionaries had wanted to settle at Viu (We were told the district was suggested to them by a Missionary organization in Ikko, now Lagos). Viu at the time was a comparably large urban center, but which had already embraced Islam and so they were thus vehemently denied settlement there. The British colonial officer in charge of the administration of the district at the time strongly discouraged them from doing so because he feared a protest from the powerful Emir and his mentor the Shehu of Sokoto.

They were, however informed of our peaceful dispositions, and that we were not very far from Viu, only twenty-five miles to the East. They were told of the name of our village as Garkida. The ‘Garkida people’, they were advised, would be more susceptible to ‘your message’. From thence they were given an escort and porters to help them make the journey to our land. Can you believe it took them more than three weeks to cross the hills and streams which bestride the paths to ‘their new destination’, our village? Before they could enter our village, however they had to cross the Hawul River, which, at this time of the year, was overflowed and could be dangerous.

In yesteryears the river has served us very well; for example, as deterrence to enemy invasion and attack. When it’s flooded it flows with a fierce tumbling speed and drops with a sudden ferocity into a huge and deep gorge. In some places the bank is hemmed by steep escarpments which drop precipitously to the water-level, making it very difficult and pernicious to cross.

When they arrived at the banks of the Hawul River, our people were utterly mesmerized to find out that the new-comers couldn’t swim! Consequently they had to delay some few hours on the other side until the river ebbed a little. Because they were so anxious and excited to cross the river as soon as it was possible, in order to meet or get close to us, their escorts and some of our people who had come over to receive them built a hammock and ferried them across the powerful menacing river. This particular princely gesture has always been savored and admired and was often mentioned by the missionaries animatedly, years later, to whoever would listen.

When the ‘new-comers’ finally came to our village and saw our village with its sprawling, beautiful grass-thatched roofs and smelt the free but gentle floating aroma of our food preparations, such as the frying of bean cake, and the cooking of fish; and observed the white free-floating smoke emanating from the villager’s stoves in preparation of the evening meal, they were ecstatic and expressed their profound admiration.

They also admired the rows of our manicured and well-maintained green neem trees scattered throughout the village and the artistically-strung cornstalk fences which surrounded every household. The village and its surrounds formed a picturesque scene in their minds, a scene they would always recount to a foreign visitor who might lend them his ears. These were the things that seemed to have an immediate impact and whetted their curiosity about our people and culture.

As if decreed by fate, our people at the time depended wholly on farming for sustenance, with hunting and fishing amongst several of our seasonal secondary hobbies. We were – and are ─ so naturally open and transparent that nothing either